The World May Break
by snuggalong
Summary: "You are, have been, and always will be the soul of this planet, and it is the soul in you - " In another time, in another universe, five appeared where there should have been six - but in another time, and in another universe, Spock and Jim were not wizards, sworn to the service of Life itself. [fix-it fic in the #wizardtrek 'verse, cross-posted from tumblr. see end for prompt]


**The World May Break**

* * *

the planet is screaming.

spock materializes on vulcan's surface and finds himself nearly driven to his knees; as it is, his breath is snatched from his lungs; his heart falters in his chest; his entire body buckles beneath the weight of this sound that is not sound that defies all description, the sound of an entire planet crying out in rage, in grief, in _pain_

spock is vulcan's child, and every child of vulcan can feel it to some extent, but more than that, he is its only wizard child, the only one that has _chosen_ to feel it in all its depths and breadths and complexities, and so it descends upon him in fury, in rage, uncomprehending of its own strength—

—_what's a child to the world, oh everything, __**everything**__—_

—spock did not know it was possible to feel so much

_(they're dying, and I will die with them, or is it the other way around?)_

the world is breaking, and it would see him break with it to chase the merest possibility to

_fix it fix me fix us fix save heal repair rebuild return to_

_what was_

_what is (not)_

_what will no longer be_

_(oh, if only it were not so)_

spock buries the feelings in the deep in the dark, locks the screams away with them, tries—futilely—to ignore the resounding echoes that will soon be all remains of his home

as he climbs the cliffs to the katrik ark, he wonders if this is what heartbreak feels like—

—a world crumbling around you, slowly at first, and then all at once

screaming for what you are powerless to give

* * *

jim can scarcely remember a time he has felt more powerless than this

oh, sure, he could think of a few, but right now there's not much time for thinking, much less reminiscing, considering spock just beamed himself down to his planet that's on the brink of utter destruction due to the creation of a goddamned _singularity_ in its core

and all he can do is _stand here_ with his eyes glued to the transporter technician's monitors, oscillating constantly between the readouts of spock's vitals and the readouts of what precisely is happening below vulcan's surface—readings which are swiftly passing beyond anything that the instruments were designed to accurately measure

the planet is being ripped apart from the inside out, and he can hear it screaming even across the thousands of kilometers of soundless void between them, reverberating in his core and leaving him feeling scraped raw

if they had hours, instead of seconds, hours and a team of wizarding experts in intrastellar and intraplanetary dynamics, maybe, just maybe, they could save vulcan

if they had minutes, instead of seconds, maybe jim would contact carl and ask him if it were possible for a singular wizard—read, himself—with no little to no expertise in those areas to derail the reaction caused by red matter being dropped into the core of a planet, or at the very least delay it long enough for evacuation procedures to be completed

if, if, if—only if—if only—

but there are no ifs. there is only reality—the cold reality that they have seconds, and spock

—_spock, __**spock, **__christ you barely know the man he tried to throw you under the bus why does he matter so much why are you so drawn to him—_

—spock is down there, and he is up here, and for all the power he's been granted he can do _nothing_

but wait

and pray

_why swear to protect Life if you can't when it needs it most?_

* * *

the tunnel is longer than spock remembers—though logically, he knows, that's his desperation poisoning his mind

some small part of him hoped for the screaming to fade, even a little, inside the mountain

he belatedly realizes that was a foolish hope—if anything, the screaming is louder, here, in this sacred place that has been the heart and soul of their culture for countless generations

"spock?!" his mother gasps as he runs into the innermost chamber, the scarcest hint of what one, if they did not know better, might call panic in his eyes.

"the planet has only seconds left. we must evacuate. mother, now!"

the elders hasten to join him, and as he takes his mother by the arm and leads her from the chamber, he can see the fear in her face, that loving face that has never hidden what it felt from him, for him, about him like most every other he's known, and in that moment he knows why he beamed to vulcan regardless of the near certainty of his own death along with his parents', why he joined starfleet, why he fought the way he did as a child, why he could never, hard as he tried to, find a reason to put wizardry and all its logical fallacies aside—because out of every being he had sworn to protect, this one was the only one he would fight tooth and nail for, move heaven and earth for, go to any lengths to keep a smile on her face

(to keep her existing to smile in the first place)

(and if it took fighting, if it took starfleet, if it took wizardry, if it took risking his own self to do that, he would do it without a second thought)

(logic be damned)

they emerge into the amber light of the—_last—_vulcan afternoon—it could be any ordinary, peaceful day, to look at the sky, but the ground is quaking and shaking and breaking beneath their feet and there is an ominous, unceasing rumbling permeating the air and everything is overlaid by _screaming _and

"spock to enterprise, get us out _now!"_

_the world_

"_locking on you. don't move, stay right where you are."_

_is_

"_transport in five—"_

* * *

—_breaking, _the cliff is _breaking!_

the realization hits jim a moment before the alarms start blaring and in that moment he is faced with a choice—

—_save her, reveal yourself—_

—that's not a choice at all.

"chekov, _move!"_

and he lunges forward, shoving the poor ensign aside far enough that he can still work the transport controls at least, but that's not important, what's important are the words that pour from his mouth and into the communications panel in a language foreign to everyone in the room but him but at the same time not, a liquid, flowing language still beautiful for the desperation that colors it

it is the Speech, but it is not a spell that jim Speaks, because there is no time for spells, no time for thinking, there is only time for—

—_words_

just words,

that is all spock can Speak, all he can Say, as he watches the fear fill his mother's face as the earth cracks beneath her feet and he reaches, reaches desperately, reaches futilely—

—reaches as he implores the earth beneath them to—

* * *

—_stay, to be, that's what you want, isn't it?_

_you are the stone that has stood the test of time, and you will stand it a thousand years more, ten thousand, forever because you are_

* * *

_ageless, fierce, immovable but by your own whim—you will not bend, you will not crack, you will not __**break**; __you are, have been, and always will be the—_

* * *

—_soul of this planet, and it is the soul in you; the hours may unmake—_

* * *

—_our flesh and our bone—_

* * *

—_but the soul, oh the __**soul**__, the soul is __**all—**_

* * *

"_**and all alone"'**_

* * *

back and forth, back and forth, until their voices rise to a crescendo—

—voices, _voices, __**another—**_

—and chekov, the elders, everyone, can only watch in shock spock and jim speak what is to them, nonsense—but is Life, is Love, is _Being_—and as the stone that should be crumbling does _not,_ rather, it begins to knit itself back _together—_

"_chekov!"_

jolted out of his daze, the russian's hands fly instinctively across the console, and

"_energize—"_

* * *

—_golden light—_

* * *

in another time, in another universe, spock never ventured into that remote corner of the vulcan science academy's library and found an ancient, buckham-bound little book

he never read about the Powers, the Fall, the never-ending Battle

he never took the Oath, never made his Choice—never knew he had a Choice at all

years later, he stood upon a cliff as his planet crumbled around him, its screams falling upon deaf ears, and reached, reached desperately, reached futilely, reached _Silently_ for a hand he could not

—_would not, would never again—_

—grasp—

* * *

—_golden light everywhere, obscuring his vision—_

* * *

in another time, in another universe, james tiberius kirk drives a car into a quarry

at the police station, he is turned loose upon the small library as they attempt to contact his mother because they figure he can't possibly do much damage in a library

(they'd be wrong, he could, but he won't, because sometimes, when she was home, his mother would read him stories and he'd listen with rapt attention and lose himself in worlds not his own and he'd never dare take that from another person)

but instead of finding a beat up old padd in a corner of the furthest shelf as he tries to see if there's a way to escape, he finds one about motorcycles and is thoroughly engrossed for the next two hours until they finally do manage to contact his mother

he never takes his Oath, never experiences the feeling of knowing he can be something more, never makes a_ Choice_ to be something more—never, as another, knew he had a Choice—

years later, he stands in the transporter room of the U.S.S Enterprise and watches chekov try desperately to fight the laws of physics, something tightening in his chest as he fails and—

* * *

—_a hand in his._

* * *

six figures materialize on the platform.

spock's mother's hand is in his, and with scarcely a thought for logic, for decorum, for suppression, he pulls her close in the first embrace he's given her—and not the other way around—in as long as he can remember—

over the top of her head, he sees jim kirk, and memory returns to him full force

—_two voices blending as one, holding together, Speaking to the earth and, however briefly, mending the very fabric of that earth—_

as the stunned, silent room watches, jim lifts his chin and meets spock's gaze head on, unflinching

"i," spock says eventually, slowly, carefully, "am on errantry…and i greet you."

jim's eyes widen, but only a fraction, before the barest trace of what might be a smile crosses his face "and i as well, cousin," he says. "well met on the common journey."

and it's far more formal than he would usually be but he can't bring himself to give any less, to this man who nearly lost—

—is losing—

—everything—

—and then the ship shifts beneath their feet and the spell is broken and everyone is trying to demand an explanation and medical is sweeping into the room and far, far below them

silent screams choke into nothing, leaving only echoes

vulcan is gone

but later, as jim allows mccoy to seal over his various cuts and scrapes and bruises

—_superficial, __**superficial**__, why care for me when their world has just fallen apart—_

he meets spock's eyes across the room, standing steadfast at his mother's side as a nurse hovers with a tricorder, and something passes between them, something unspoken, an unfathomable grief—

—a depthless gratitude—

—acceptance.

(_the world may break, but we remain  
what was, was  
what is, is  
and what will be  
will be  
again_

_someday)_

* * *

Yet another story in the #wizardtrek 'verse, this time for the following prompt:

"Okay but AU where Jim and Spock are both wizards and Vulcan and Earth are still sevarfrith but when they're on Vulcan they both start a spell to keep the cliff together long enough for Chekov to get everyone so Amanda doesn't die, and I'm not sure how Jim gets to be acting captain if he can't prove Spock emotionally compromised, but it probably has something to do with wizardry, but the point is really that scene where they beam up and Amanda is there and everyone is staring at Jim and Spock but they don't notice because they're too busy staring at each other until finally one of them manages an "I am on errantry and I greet you""

I am actually particularly proud of this piece, having let my favored writing style-stream of consciousness, lots of dashes, no capitalization-have full reign, so I hope you enjoyed it as well.


End file.
